


The Horror, The Horror

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: ALL OF THE WARNINGS, Drunk violence, Gore, Gross infected wounds, Mutilation, Poor Jeyne, Torture, You know what kind of shit I write here, consider yourself warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay finds out Jeyne is unable to give him any heirs.<br/>He does what you'd expect Ramsay to do upon hearing such news.<br/>Theon is forced to clean up the dirty work.</p>
<p>Note the archive warnings! This is dark and sick...don't read if it's not your thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Horror, The Horror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanjcsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanjcsy/gifts).



> I've come to accept the fact that there's definitely something wrong with my head.  
> Oh well.  
> For whatever it's worth: I'd never hurt a fly in real life, guys. I'm the sweetest girl you'd ever meet, but when I get stuck in emotional black holes...well, this is the kind of thing that results.   
> Enjoy, fellow twisted ones. -_-

Theon was curled up in a ball in the coldest corner of Ramsay's bedchambers when a steel-tipped boot kicked him hard in the stomach, jolting him out of sleep. The boot came again, this time hard enough to make him cough and wheeze.

Theon's heart began to pound. Had he moved in his sleep toward the warmth of the fireplace, without knowing? Ramsay had warned him that if he did, he'd whip him til all the skin was gone from his back.

"No," he slurred, delirious with confusion and fear. "I didn't mean to. Please."

"Get up," snarled Yellow Dick, the owner of the boot. "Ramsay wants you in the Maester's den. Now."

Theon struggled to his feet. The last he'd heard of the Maester was four days ago, when Roose had ordered for lady Arya--really Jeyne Poole--to be seen by him after she could not stop bleeding. She'd spent a full week sobbing in her sleep, after her lord husband had gotten angry one night and shoved a fire poker deep into her womanhood. Each day since, she'd grown weaker and weaker from loss of sleep--and each new morning, the mattress grew more stained with blood, until the latest servant girl had been hunted in the woods for not being able to wash it out.

Theon's trembling hands reached toward the bed, and grabbed Jeyne's favorite wool blanket--the one she always hid under, and the one that was barely touched by the blood.

Yellow Dick yanked him away. "You won't be needin' that. Come on, you mangy piece of shit. Hurry up now."

Theon walked after his tormentor. They descended stairways and hallways under they reached the Maester's chambers, "conveniently" located by the entrance to the dungeons.

He felt lighter and almost hollow as they walked, until he felt like he was outside of himself. Something was wrong. A low, keening, hacking noise was coming from inside the chambers, and he realized it was the weeping of Jeyne--terrifying weeping, the kind that one made when they had fallen into so much agony that they lost the dignities of human restraint.

They entered the doorway. The room was dark--too dark to see--save for one dim torch that blazed against a wall. Ramsay leaned against the wall, wearing white nightclothes spattered with blood. His arms were crossed. He stared at the floor. He rose his head to look at them, and Theon realized two things: his face was stained with both blood spatters and tears, and also, his eyes were bloodshot. He smelled like strong alcohol, too.

"Ramsay?" asked Yellow Dick. Dick stepped back gingerly, and for once, there was fear in his eyes. "Where's the Maester?"

"He's gone to bed." Ramsay's voice was flat. "Given up. Said she's too far gone--she'll never be able to bear my children. My heirs. My line--my father's legacy--" Ramsay began to shake with anger, and then the sick sobbing hacks started up again.

"Anyways," Ramsay said, "You've done your duty. This is a private matter. Leave Reek here--we'll handle it from this point. GO."

Yellow Dick left the chambers, looking relieved to be out of whatever was to come next.

Theon's eyes had adjusted to the light, and when he saw what was in the opposite corner of the room, his heart dropped to his stomach.

Jeyne lay limp on the floor, under a large pool of blood. Her nightgown lay discarded and crumpled a few feet away, and bruises and cuts littered her entire form. A huge jagged gash, made from a dull knife, ran from the top of her hip to mid-way up her chest, and the area around it had grown yellow-green and puffy. Boot-shaped wounds marked the spot on her stomach where someone had kicked her. Her crying had grown weaker now, fainter, and she looked about to pass out. Both her hands clutched at her abdomen, hiding the origin of the newest knife gash. Her thighs were stained with thick crimson blood, weeks' worth.

Her eyes blurred for a moment, then widened when she recognized Theon. She winced and blinked: a silent beg for help, or even for basic human compassion.

Theon forgot about Ramsay. He flew to her and knelt by her side, threading his mangled fingers through her bloodied, sweaty hair.

"Ramsay?" he demanded, jerking his head up. "What is the meaning of this?"

"What is the meaning?" Ramsay repeated, almost singing back the words. He took a few steps toward them, but lost his balance, and tumbled over to steady himself against the wall. Two empty wine flagons lay next to where he'd been standing against the wall.

Theon turned back toward Jeyne. He was weak, and she was too injured to move, but with Ramsay this drunk, maybe they stood a chance of escape.

"Come on," he said, talking gently and soothingly. "I'll get you out of here."

"No," Jeyne murmured. She reached out with a bloodied hand and touched his face, stroking him. "Can't. Move. He killed me."

"No he hasn't," Theon whispered in a panic, "You're talking and alive right now. We'll get you help."

Jeyne's chin quivered and tears rolled down her face. Theon looked down to the place where her hand had been--and almost cried himself. The cut had widened into a deep gap in her abdomen, and pink organs glistened inside, visible to his eyes. He could see that any movement would make the cut widen and deepen. Any movement would kill her.

"Stay here," he said, as tears from his face dripped onto hers. "I'll find you help."

He passed the drunken Ramsay--who was now gibbering and vomiting into the other corner--and opened the door.

"Help!" He hollered. "Somebody, please!" He did not care who heard him. The Maester--Roose--the servants--anyone. Nobody would be stupid enough to let the Lord of the Dreadfort's wife die.

A hand grabbed the back of his collar and spun him around.

Ramsay's arms were stronger than usual. The fury in his face was stronger than usual. His eyes were still bloodshot red, but the focus had returned to them, and his slurred voice had the tone of deadly precision.

"You," he snarled, "Get in here. I told you to help me, you worthless mange."

Theon's eyes darted from Ramsay, to the broken naked dying girl on the floor. "What would you have me do?"

Ramsay backhanded him before he could blink. "Help me before my father returns. Help me finish what I started."

"My lord, I--I was getting help now, let me find the Maester--"

"I don't care about the Maester!" Ramsay roared. "He did everything he could and it was for nothing! No, I need a new wife--one who can bear my sons. And you're going to clean up the mess of this disaster before my father learns of it and has me banished from the kingdom."

Theon closed his eyes for an instant. He thought of the times when he was a carefree young boy, when he and Jeyne had laughed and kissed behind the stables. He thought of the times when he had bathed her, and she had stroked his shoulders and hair--the only kind human touch he'd gotten in years. He thought of the times when she had begged him to save her--and he had failed.

Theon did not care how many times Ramsay whipped him, or how many fingers he flayed. 

"No," he said. "I'm going to help her."

Ramsay laughed. It was an inhuman laugh, a demonic and deranged one. He picked up a wine bottle and smashed it into the wall.

"All right, then," he said, still speaking in the deadly slurred voice that turned Theon's bones to ice. "I suppose we must do this the difficult way."

Ramsay picked up the largest shard of glass and crossed the room to where Jeyne lay, almost unconscious now. He shoved her hands away from the wound--from her one meager attempt to defend herself--and jammed the glass into her exposed organs.

Jeyne tried to scream, but blood just oozed from her mouth. Her mouth and eyes jolted open in frozen horror, like a fish yanked out of the water.

Ramsay took the bloodied shard out of her stomach and peeled at the skin at the base of her wound, peeling it back the way he had done to Theon's fingers.

"Your choice," Ramsay said coolly, staring Theon in the eyes. "Kill her and be done with it, or I'll make a show of this for myself."


End file.
